Written in Blood
by Purplehood
Summary: 'And thus he blanched, biting the insides of his cheek to draw forth even more blood from within himself as he coiled the festering, boiling flesh further around his father's Jewel, encasing that holy object in the filthy, charring brackets of his fingers.' Maedhros stands before a fiery chasm. Maglor walks along the shore.
1. Maedhros

He felt the blood drain from his face even as his fingers clenched against the pain. Beads of precipitation trailed down the roughened, weary flesh of his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe away the streaks of grime. There was no need.

The stars had long lost their light that evening, warped and stilted by the final pangs of a scream torn from a bleeding throat.

The day had died in silence after that, broken only by the soft weeping by his side.

No light was left for him to see by; the stars had abandoned them. And even with that knowledge, he heeded them not. He had other things to deal with.

For the shadows were steadily stretching across the ground, creeping towards him, deeper, darker, swallowing up everything in their way, closer with every second that passed—every second the world was forced to endure his presence.

And they were reaching for him, _pleading_ for him, and seeking, always seeking for a way in, probing and prodding his mind for every crack, every bloody laceration and gaping wound that had been inflicted upon his ravaged mind because—he was theirs.

He was the sickened creature, consumed by shadows and the pursuit of hate, the patron of bloodstained hands, bloodlust incarnate—and he _knew._

He knew, as the sweeping gusts of wind whipped his fiery tendrils back into his accursed face and over shaking shoulders, that he had chosen this path himself. He had called out to invite the doom that rest upon him, eagerly, dutifly—a self righteous clot of hypocrisy and bloodshed in order to gain a mere reflection of memory he chose not to forget and yet had forsaken countless times.

This shard of the Past was not his anymore.

He, himself, had renounced his claim long ago, in an oath bound by his blood—the red mark of slain innocence.

And thus he blanched, biting the insides of his cheek to draw forth even more blood from within himself as he coiled the festering, boiling flesh further around his father's Jewel, encasing that holy object in the filthy, charring brackets of his fingers.

The soft squelching of its light was the last image he wanted—the last image he _deserved_ —and he closed his eyes to the world and drank in the heat that wafted from the chasm below.

"Brother?"

He ignored the broken voice—another thing he had tarnished for selfish reasons. It was barely a hollow whisper of its stolen beauty and light now.

No, there was no turning back from the path they had chosen to tread. The demand had to be heeded.

" _Maitimo?_ Brother, we–we are–" it stuttered again, unable to finish whatever misery had yet to be voiced in the spoken tongue.

The world around was almost indifferent to the sound, half-smothered in ash and choked with smoke as it was.

He sighed, feeling the warm liquid pool from the crevice of his lips—He dared not open his eyes again, for fear of finding black where once was crimson, or perhaps—of the fact that it wouldn't come as a surprise.

He had no wish to behold those tear-weary eyes of his brother gazing down into the doom held in his burning palm.

"W-what are we doing, brother?"

 _Why did you make me do this?_ That was the true question, pitifully hidden from his sight.

Loyalty was a blind trust.

Makalurë was nothing if not loyal; it was to be his downfall in the end, as it was his.

Loyal to the point of sacrificing sense to appease the bloodthirsty gods that whispered within their minds like those of the savage men.

 _And for what?_

His brother's words echoed back to him, pulsing in rhythm to the throb of his hand. " _Less evil shall we do in the breaking of the Oath."_

 _Less evil?_ Perhaps, if that was what the standards were. How much less of an evil it all would have been if they, themselves, had never _existed_ in the first place!

He cursed his own damning response, his drive to feed the beast once more, to spill the last remains of his brothers' blood before the accursed Light.

 _Accursed Light?_

Nay, it was not the Light that was cursed. It was he, the pain reminded him, the devouring creature churning within him, feeding off the last of his will and the trust of his remaining brother.

He wallowed in his self-inflicted darkness, and unintentionally he slipped back within himself, listening to the whispers gnawing at the edge of his mind.

It was a habit he had picked up some time ago, letting them have their way and tasting their poison on his tongue like stale wine.

A cruel pleasure.

 _The sharp lashing of whips, cruel shouts of commands, the hissing and crackling of flames, endless screams of 'kinslayer! murderer! traitor!' choked out from dying throats, the taunting clash of waves upon the shore, haunting whimpers of despair trailing the winter's winds, and the ever-present phantom of agony burning his right shoulder and arm from within..._

 _And now, the weeping of Makalurë_ _Kanafinwë_ _by his side, broken and despairing for what he had both lost and gained, having been severed from the last tendons of love that kept him from the Shadows—their own personal Everlasting Darkness._

 _He is so close that Maitimo can almost feel the brush of his cloak against his arm. And yet, his brother is so far away, and already fading from his view._

" _What have we done?_ " Maglor called out, to his brother or to the wind, or perhaps, even to the fire that burned in the chasm far below where they stood. _Because what was reason but a bitter hindrance? Or a painful homage to the madness within?_

It could be given up; as it had long since proven impractical.

His legs moved almost on their own accord, forward, onward, _driven_ by the accusatory flashes of agony that spiraled up from his blackened blistering palm.

His other arm had started to ache as well— _that non-existent, eternal ghost of torment._

 _How much more must be given, eldest of Fëanor, until your gods are satisfied?_

 _Two we have, but three there are._

 _The last has not been claimed._

 _Do you still clasp your right to them with a broken hand? O Single-Handed One? Kinslayer, and Captive of Shadows, Slave of Oaths and by them Cursed?_

Well, no longer.

 _The Shadow will not be satisfied._

He continued on, refusing to halt, pulling away from his brother's hand that grappled towards him, gripping his cloak and _begging. His cries of alarm go unheeded. As does the wailing that comes after._

There was no reason to offer him, _no soothing council from a beloved brother_ —nothing he would understand. No acceptable apology.

There was nothing left.

This empty shell was no longer _Maitimo Nelyafinwë_.

 _Russando_ had died long, long ago.

Maedhros the Kinslayer had traveled so far on this plane of reality, but, even _he_ did not even inhabit this _soulless husk._

Not anymore.

 _He hardly feels the fire._


	2. Maglor

I watched as the trees went dark, as their light was swallowed forever in a wave of dark foam—a venomous, bubbling vomit.

And that time was for us a night of death.

Death, now crowned in hate and clothed in robes, scarlet and black as dried blood, our king. And our first lust for revenge is begun.

Oh, what sweet words Father had used. How eloquent in his designs. His Oath, forged in golden pride.

Power and suspicion became our only true comrades, as was the understanding of our father. His philosophy bled deep inside our minds—bloody minds sold for greater things: objects of worthy admiration and adoration, lost and stolen, defiled and captive, ravished and tarnished, yet greater still than the sum of my heart and those of my brothers.

For we were worthless without these treasures.

The works of his soul, our father called them, but they were mere capsules of captive glory, unmade by him.

But nevermind the afterthought, for I, too, am counted among the doomed. My hands will burn perpetually.

Our father set to motion our plights, and we followed, bound now by some invisible yet invincible force, manifested in bloody hands and gore-driven swords, hungry for vengeance. And then, the after, forever ache of a shame-filled heart, festering, as maggots of carnage and destruction devoured me whole.

Would that my life had been taken and spared from those red-foam shores! They swallowed my final, virtuous doubt.

How strange it is that I should envy death.

Through fire and heat, we fell, one after the other. Father first, and we, the ever loyal, glory-striving sons, set aflame by obstacles, soon followed those scattered ashes and shattered pride.

Thus our plight passes by.

And our people _suffer_.

We tore into their flesh as wild beasts, gnarling dreams and mauling consciences.

We _killed_ them.

All in the name of pride.

With each pluck of my harp, the words pass through my lips.

The memories slip from my mind as the sand through my fingers.

The faces of the past, the deeds of old, tattered glory—all a potion of diluted hope.

My doom is to remain upon these shores—To remember, to relive the days of a far away past. To capture my own bit of memory within a semblance of light.

For not all was dark.

And not all was in vain.

I keep close the memories of the sunlit laughter we shared, of the joys we found in a new land, bathed in a new light.

Our hearts were not always so heavy.

By the harshest strides we took, we built ourselves a home. Not as grand as before, but we were content enough.

And our people were able to taste a bit of that sweetness that comes with peace.

And you, my brother.

My Lord.

My _king._

You fought through the pain and sorrows, this battlefield of doom and despair, to clasp our hands together in hope.

You, the protector.

Our bright leader.

You fought against the Darkness, met him in fierce, bloody combat, to claim for yourself your own mind, the banner of your sanity.

And when these horrors cast you down, bare and bleeding, you built yourself back up by the base of your bones.

For the light was bright within you. And it would not be cowed so easily.

You knew, perhaps, that we should have need of it. You knew where our path was led.

And you _tried._

The Oath was hardest for you.

It scraped against your mind, prickled the deepest nerves within you. It sought your very self, promising lies with songs of bittersweet discordant magic.

And I watched you fight it. I watched you grovel and wither in agony during the darkest of nights.

And still you _fought_ with whatever power the world left you, however scarce it might have been.

You were our strength in times of need, a pillar of truth in a realm of shadows. Tall and proud, being _slowly_ , _surely_ , gnawed away at.

You bore the soul of a weather-worn warrior, with eyes that gleamed with a vibrant fire. You had always been a fighter, a survivor.

And I should have realized sooner the pain you suffered.

I dragged you down the road to your final demise, bled you dry for your shows of glory and productions of lordly confidence. Because I wanted, _needed_ , my deranged morals justified.

I took your pain and _watched_ in twisted admiration as the threads of your mind unraveled and spiraled downward.

And _oh,_ how I would love to place the blame on anything else. How quick I am to seek a hole in this burning reality, a coward's escape route or a traitor's daring pledge of _innocence._

But here I am, alone and lost, too dry to drown, too cold to burn. And I know that it is my fault that I stand beyond the sea and hold the congealed anguish of our sins in my right hand.

I will not call out to the Valar. For they could not understand the trials we have faced, nor the hesitancy I feel in submitting to their punishment. Perhaps it is that my regrets are not yet strong enough to override Father's pride in my blood.

Or perhaps I have lost hope, brother. Time and thought slips steadily from my grasp already, _why not hope as well?_

And yet, still, I sing to your memory and those of our brothers, and even to Father's. And I call over the sea and _plead_ , not to the Valar, but to the Light that shines overhead, that someday we may be reunited in a perfect world, where the pain is only a distant, faded reminder to sweeten our recovery. A gentle testimony to how far we have come.

Perhaps this is a fool's hope. And how dare I speak of such things? Of such pure light beyond my grasp?

Perhaps this will be nothing more than an undeserved dream of mine, hidden rebelliously within my heart.

But, perhaps, he stands on a foreign shore, listening.


End file.
